March
16, 2015
Greetings
from the unforgiving minute,
The
clock on my desk is stopped: 3:41. It has been that way for a long time, but for
some reason I haven’t done anything about it.
In fact, part of me has grown accustomed to it. It is an interesting thought, having time
suspended here in this little space where I write.
I
know that time never stands still, and like anyone I am not in a hurry for life
to pass. But more and more I treasure
the moments when time is irrelevant.
It
is a slippery thing. Aside from what our
watches tell us, we measure time from our own perspective. Minutes drag when we are trapped in mundane
activity, and the days rush by when we are swept up in celebration. It is a conundrum; many of us want to savor
time, to hold it in place, but the most fulfilling way to live is in a state
where time passes at the greatest velocity.
That is how I woke this morning, thinking of the
last twenty one years. I am so happy to
say they flew by.
When
they were born, time was measured in hours.
When they would be fed next or changed or when they would sleep. The hours filled up and spilled into buckets
of days, each a measure of success, each one that they were safe, alive, was a
victory. Then there were enough days to count to matter, so then they could be
grouped in weeks. And they were such-and-such
weeks old. Until one day there were
enough to describe it in months and really mean it.
Then
somehow there were enough months to add up to years. And blocks of years,
seasons of growing, eras. And now, I pause
as I write this and glance at my stopped clock; they are twenty one.
In
a blink that will really be true. Tomorrow
is my sons’ birthday. Harrison Hume
Smith. Carson Buchanan Smith. Sawyer Thomas Smith. In a momentous occasion such as this, it
seems fitting that you should know their formal names. Milestones like this are where we mark a
place in the whirling maelstrom of time.
A moment to consider what has come before, and to look at the broad
future unspooling in the moments to come.
An
impossibly full twenty one years.
These
young men, who I know as well as they can be known, still astound me. They have already begun adventures, off in
their own orbit. They already have their
own experiences, opinions, wisdom. The
world out beyond my stopped clock is already intersecting with them as grown
men.
And
the world is a better place. However you
fill your hours, however you feel the passage of time, trust me, it would be
even richer should you spend time with my sons.
They
are unique individuals, bound by the same starting time twenty one years ago,
but each already carving their own paths through their own futures. They have their own gifts and strengths, and
I am proud of how they developed those. Wherever
they go you will sense a positive difference in the people they meet.
You
will find they are intelligent and thoughtful and interested in other
people. They would show you compassion; they
would share what they have with you, including time. My sons make good friends, people you can
count on. They are honest, diligent,
resourceful, and each in their own way, passionate. And they know how to laugh.
I
have had a full life these last two decades in part because they filled
it. My children, my three boys, and
this astounding woman who is their sister, have funneled the days to me in a
way that has deepened me. Time with them
is a clock with no hands.
They
have given me every reason to cherish each day, to relish each waking moment,
and at the same time, I am so pleased the time has roared by, filled with
laughter and adventure walks and ice cream and bike rides and love and
heartbreak and friendship and chocolate and grass stains and every color and
smell and taste with which we have filled the hours.
And
there is this; I know what it is about the stopped clock that resonates with
me. It is a thread from another morning
when time stood still. My boys have a
brother for whom seconds did not start.
Alexander, who was filled with the same promise and the same potential
as his brothers, who twenty one years ago joined them into this world but was never
to spend time. His mark, his place with
us, is only the dream of what he might have been. Alexander Forrest Smith. His time with us, the difference he makes in
our hours, is in the echoes of his brothers’ lives.
And
we celebrate it all.
Inherent
in any celebration is an element of gratitude.
Thankful for the reason, whether it is a great run, a song you love, or
a birthday, we find a way to celebrate, acknowledge and honor the moment. This morning, like all mornings, I am grateful
for my sons and for the lives they are creating. I can’t wait to celebrate this birthday, and
every day, each hour and minute, each irresistible tick of the clock. I am better for it and if you join us, so
will you be.
Hope
this finds you spinning the second hand,
David
Copyright © 2015 David
Smith
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